Hands of Reassurance
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Companion-piece to Words of Reassurance. Mid-S2. Waking up post-GSW-surgery, Donna holds Josh's hands as she tells him what happened, as he remembers what happened. When months later he takes his busted-up hand to the hospital on Christmas Eve, Donna Moss is there for Josh Lyman. '"Just . . . please . . . stay with me . . . ?" The pleading in his eyes couldn't be ignored.'


**_Soli Deo gloria_**

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The West Wing. Or the John Hopkins Medical Center. Yo-Yo Ma is his own person. **

**So I've only gotten to the middle of S2 and I needed Josh and Donna to get together, like, _yesterday_. **

The constant beeps of the heart monitor flickering up and down was the sound that pulled him back into consciousness. He couldn't take a whole breath as his eyes adjusted to the sudden bright hospital lights. His vision was as hazy as his memory as he tried to cobble together the story that had landed him here—

Oh yeah. The sirens. The shooting. The panic. The screaming. The sudden pain, the blood spilling out unabated. Was that Toby's voice? Jostled; in a car, maybe? Rushing feet, scrubs talking over each other. Consciousness swimming in and out.

There was a lot of pain. A lot of lost hours. Then more pain, but something more distinct still: The President's voice. _He _was alive, thank God. Then, realization that _he_, Josh Lyman, was alive.

He passed out after hearing Leo's voice. He could rest reassured now. The President was alive.

He didn't know how long ago all that was, but now, as his eyes adjusted, he could realize more of the situation. He couldn't move, for starters; he laid in a hospital room in a hospital gown hooked up to a half dozen different machines. But then his eyes focused on the steady pressure on his hand.

There were three chairs in his hospital room, but Donna Moss's knees were pressed against the hard tile floor. Her blonde hair was down as both her slender typist's hands held onto his limp hand like a lifeline.

"Donna?" he croaked through chapped lips, more curious than anything.

Her head flung up and her lips parted in astonishment. The look on her face made him smile just a little, right when smiling shouldn't've been possible right then. "What are you _doing_?"

"I was just listening to your pulse," Donna said evenly, quickly wiping her face of any surprise.

"Checking my pulse. As you do," Josh joked, the smile increasing just a little bit.

"They told us you had woken up. They said to let you rest but . . . I needed to see you. I wanted to be here when you woke up again," Donna said.

"How—um. . ." he squinted against the lights again, so Donna pulled herself up into a chair to block one from his eye line. She never let go of his hand, though. "How long was I out?"

"Right now it is twenty-three hours after the shooting," Donna said.

Josh almost sat up. "Twenty-three hours?!" He fell back in bed after realizing that that was a really, _really _bad idea.

"Josh, stop! You're going to tear the bandages or the stitches or whatever they had to do," Donna said fretfully.

Josh tightened his jaw against the pain as he said, "What did they have to do?"

"You had a collapsed lung, Josh. The bullet hit an important artery. You were in surgery for fourteen hours."

Josh laid his head back and stared at the ceiling. "So, I know you just said I had a collapsed lung and all but, be honest. . ." He tilted his head to look up at her. "How bad was it?"

"It was _bad_, Josh. We were real worried there." The pressure on his hand was nice. It wasn't suffocating, like the doctors' handiwork on his abdomen was. Her grip was soft and gentle, but firm and _there_. "We worried that you wouldn't even pull through the surgery. Josh . . . you could've died on the operating table." Her voice choked on that last sentence and she buried her forehead against the edge of the hospital bed.

Huh. The irony. All this time, the thought that always nagged the back of his mind—that in any dangerous situation all his friends would die and he'd get stuck being left alive—was flipped on his head in real life. Well, he _would_ rather go out than live without any of them.

He almost regretted that thought when he heard Donna heave a dry sob.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Donna."

She lifted her head up and made a half-hearted try to pull herself back together. Straightened her back and wiped at her eyes and sniffled and said, "I'm just glad you're awake. And not dead." Big sniff. "Definitely glad you're not dead."

"Well, that makes two of us," Josh said. A crack of a smile just so she'd smile too. Then it disappeared. "Hey, is everyone else okay?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Donna said empathetically. "Civilians were missed. It was just you and the President, and you're both going to recover just fine."

"Well, no promises on that count, but I'll try my best," Josh said. He swallowed against a dry throat. "Donna, did they ever catch—?"

"Both shooters were shot and killed by Secret Service agents very quickly." His eyes focused on the heart monitor becoming white noise in his ears and her touch on his hand. "They had a man in the crowd as their signalman. A manhunt by the FBI found him in a diner."

Josh squinted at her. "The guy initiates a plot to assassinate the President and then goes to a diner?!"

"Josh," Donna said seriously, "they weren't trying to kill the President—"

But he didn't hear her. "What kind of _sicko _can arrange for a murder and then go casually order pancakes afterwards? How _dumb _do you have to be for that to be your master plan? Don't you think you're gonna get caught?! Freaking sitting duck for the FBI—!"

"Josh," Donna said in a warning tone, alarmed.

The beeping on the heart monitor spiked; he glanced at it and remembered to take shallow but frequent breaths, and eventually the beeping returned to a normal rhythm. He grimaced and Donna said, "What is it?"

"You sure they got the bullet out? 'Cause it still hurts like a son of a bitch right here." He felt his fingertips along his rib cage and found it hot and uncomfortable.

"I pressed the button already," Donna said. She craned her head. "I'm surprised they're not here yet."

At that moment, a nurse appeared. "Mr. Lyman," she said pleasantly, taking over the situation, "it's nice to see you're awake."

"It's nice to know I _can _wake up," Josh said.

"Now, ma'am, unfortunately we're not supposed to have visitors this late, and then, it _is _usually family only," the nurse explained.

"Oh, I'm his girlfriend—" Donna said quickly.

Talking over her, "Fiancée," Josh said.

The nurse smiled. "All right. Just for a little while. Let me just do a quick look-over."

Clipboards consulted, monitors checked, pain rated and meds prescribed, the nurse left to get Josh's operating surgeon, but not before asking, "Is there any other family I should alert in the area?"

Josh started to say, "No, no one," but Donna was louder. And faster. "Leo McGarry. He's in the waiting area. He's the White House Chief of Staff."

White House Chief of Staff ranked up there with family whereas Assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff didn't. The nurse nodded, disappeared, and Donna turned back, saying, "Everyone else is at the House doing damage control. Sam will be here as soon as he can. Also, I think C.J. has an undiagnosed concussion—"

"Why'd you say 'girlfriend?'" Josh wondered.

Donna blinked. "Why'd you say 'fiancée?'"

"Fiancée is closer to family than girlfriend. Girlfriend is in the grey area, where the nurse gets to decide the rules—you'd have to be a real jerk to deny a fiancée the chance to be with her almost-died betrothed," Josh pointed out.

"'Almost-died betrothed' is an awkward sentence," Donna pointed out.

"I just got shot. Give me a break," he said, just a little nervous chuckle tacked on to the end of that hard sentence. His eyes fell on her hands on his and her eyes fell on her hands on his and she quickly withdrew her hands, suddenly self-conscious. "No, hey," he said, meeting her eyes. "It's okay." So she put her hands back. Another tacked-on smile. "I _did _almost die."

"You need to stop making jokes about that," Donna said. Then she paused; thought if she should tell him, thought if it was too soon; then decided, you know what—he took a bullet. He could take the truth. "They weren't trying to assassinate the President, Josh."

Josh looked confused. "Then who were they trying to shoot? The crowd? Was it at random?"

"Charlie Young, Josh," Donna said. "Because . . ."

"Because of him and Zoey," Josh said, the pieces coming together in his head. He laid back and said dully, "'Cause the kid's black."

"Yeah," Donna said, 'cause what else could you say?

Josh shook his head to himself. "Were they loners or affiliated with somebody?"

"West Virginia White Pride. The signalman had a swastika tattoo."

Josh made a noise of disgust. "Sick," he seethed.

"Yeah," Donna said. She rubbed her fingertip across his hand in a soothing, repetitive gesture. His heart rate slowly grew normal again.

A light tap on the open doorway made them both look up. Charlie looked like he didn't want to intrude on what was obviously a private moment—it'd been an emotional, adrenaline-filled twenty-three hours for all of them, so maybe he shouldn't be shocked to see Donna holding Josh's hand—but he stepped in a second. "Hello Josh," he said.

"Charlie," Josh said. He waved his free hand at himself. "How do I look? Not bad, right?"

Charlie smiled; the guy's life was flipped upside down and here he was, making jokes. Same old Josh. "You look good, Josh. Um, I wanted to say that—"

"Hey," Josh said. He waved his fingers. "C'mere."

Charlie did so, confused, until Josh's arm came around his shoulders and pressed him down in a tight embrace. "It's okay, kid," Josh said thickly.

Charlie had wanted to present himself as professional the whole time, but he couldn't help but say, "I don't think you signed up for this when you hired me."

"I signed up for us to be there for you when you needed us," Josh said. He met Charlie's eyes. "You're one of us; you know that, right?"

"Yes sir," Charlie said, feeling that aching guilt in his chest eke away because of the sincerity in the older man's eyes.

"Good," Josh said. He exhaled roughly as he laid back down and said, "I think I'll rethink ever saying again that I'll, quote, 'take a hit for the team', though." _That _made Charlie and Donna laugh.

"I just wanted to check in. The President saw a nurse pass by the door and wanted to know if you were awake," Charlie said.

"Tell him I'll see him in the morning. I'll be here; I don't think either of us will be going anywhere else for a while," Josh said.

Charlie nodded to Donna and she smiled and he took his leave. Josh wanted him fade out of sight and said, "Donna?"

"Yes?"

"They were trying to _kill _him," Josh said, his voice on the edge of shaking, but not quite; he was too angry for that. "He's a twenty-year-old kid whose police officer mom died of a gunshot wound; who's trying to balance babysitting the President and babysitting his sister; who's going out with the girl he likes who happens to be white while he happens to be black; and they—tried—to—_kill _him."

Donna sucked in a breath. "People are capable of both the worst and the greatest things, Josh. It was one of the worst things today."

Josh swallowed and breathed in, but alarm grew in his eyes as Donna made to get up. "Donna," he said hurriedly.

"I'm just going to get you a cup of water, Josh. You haven't had anything in—"

"Get the nurse to do it; she'll be right back—"

"It'll take me two seconds, Josh; believe me, I am capable—"

"I certainly believe that you are capable, capable of only the greatest things and not the worst—"

"Josh—"

"I don't want to be alone right now." Josh blinked and Donna stopped short. He swallowed against his dry throat. He didn't need a cup of water right now. "The water can wait. Just . . . please . . . stay with me . . . ?" The pleading in his eyes couldn't be ignored.

Josh Lyman was always full of sarcasm and wit, of bravado and wisecracks, smart and quick and sharp and sometimes a big old jerk. But sometimes he was soft and human and shaken to his core—and the sincerity in his pleading eyes couldn't be ignored.

Donna remained standing for all of two seconds before abruptly sitting back down. "Of course," she said.

He nodded a little. "Thanks," he said. He laid his head back and made an attempt to close his eyes and just push back all the overwhelming information his mind had to process of the last twenty-three hours. He didn't succeed. They sprang open and he said, "Donna?"

Her voice reassured him that she hadn't left in the time it took him to close and open his eyes. "Yes, Josh?"

His lips shook before he finally said, "Am I going to be okay?"

Donna pressed her lips together. "Yes, I think you will be. Not immediately, though. I mean, I don't know how long it takes to recover from a gunshot wound, but yeah, eventually." She met his eyes. "Okay?"

Donna sounded like she _believed _what she said. Josh wanted to believe her, too. "Yeah, okay."

With that reassurance, by the time his operating surgeon arrived, Josh had fallen back asleep. His heartrate remained steady and true; whether or not there was a correlation between that and Donna rubbing a reassuring circle into his hand was anyone's guess.

* * *

"I bet there are about a thousand other places you'd rather be right now," Josh said as he and Donna took their seats in the John Hopkins' Emergency Room.

Donna shrugged. "No, actually, there aren't."

Josh looked past the Christmas lights and wreaths and said, "Fine, a thousand other _things _you'd rather be _doing _right now."

"Nope, no on that one, too," Donna said.

Josh gave her this _look_. "Of all the ridiculous things I've heard from you on a daily basis for going on three plus years, that has _got _to be the most far-fetched one yet."

Donna shrugged.

"Donna." She looked at him. "It's Christmas Eve."

"Yes, I noticed that, but thanks for pointing it out," Donna said.

Josh still wasn't convinced. "Donna—"

Donna rounded on him. "It's been three weeks since we all noticed you were going off the deep-end. You've just spent eight hours talking to a psychologist and a traumatologist from ATVA about your experience getting shot and how the memories of it have obviously been affecting you in the months after. You've got a serious laceration on your right palm that bled through your bandage at some point during today and you haven't even noticed. I'm here to make sure you get it taken care of and that you make it home okay; only _then _will I get to enjoy Christmas. So yes, Josh Lyman, there is _nowhere _else I'd rather be at eight PM on Christmas Eve than in the emergency room's waiting area, with _you_."

Josh didn't know what to say; so of course, he just said what he thought might be funny. "She wasn't a traumatologist. She's only training."

"Whatever." Donna sat looking straight ahead as she held her purse tightly in her lap. Josh looked blankly ahead.

He remembered how she sat with him through the rest of the night when he really woke up, long after Leo touched base with him and left him alone. She stayed through the wee hours until Sam rushed in with Toby on his tail and Josh realized she'd been awake for over a day and the three made her go home. She lived more hours in his hospital room than she did either at her own house or the White House that week. She popped in at his apartment and asked about his physical therapy the three months he was out. She bought his groceries and debated about the evening news with him. She'd seen him at some terrible lows this past year. She'd been there for him, a lot. He owed her _something_.

So he said, looking blankly ahead, "I busted my hand punching out my apartment window."

Donna rounded on him with wide eyes. "Josh! And you bandaged it yourself?"

Josh didn't look at her. "I can't listen to music." He forced himself to look at her. "'Cause it sounds like sirens. You might love Yo-Yo Ma, Donna, but to me, it all takes me back to that night."

"Josh, have you been going back to the night of the shooting over and over again? Is that what happened to you over these past three weeks?" Donna wondered.

His silence confirmed it.

"Why didn't you tell us? We're here for you, Josh; _I'm _here for you; you're not alone, Josh Lyman, no matter how much you think you are," Donna said, just a little angry.

Josh scratched the fingertip of his uninjured hand against his armrest. "Donna?" he said quietly, looking up.

"What?" she asked sulkily. She _wanted _to sulk, but her curiosity outweighed her annoyance.

"Thanks for staying with me. I'm glad you're here," he said softly.

Donna didn't look at him, but she smiled a little.

They were called back up to the desk and the nurse on duty, ready to lead them to a room, looked at her clipboard. "Josh Lyman; you're here for—"

Josh held up his hand and Donna said matter-of-factly, "He put his hand through a window."

* * *

When they walked out into the Christmas Eve night, snowflakes fell. Donna was about to start the car when Josh said, staring at the Christmas snow falling onto her windshield, "Donna?"

"Yes, Josh?" she said, just a little tired.

He gulped. "I'm going to be okay, right?"

That same question, days and weeks and months later. The same question had a harder answer now.

But it was the same answer. It would just take longer. "Yes, Josh. I believe you will be okay." Then she did what she dared not do while he laid recovering in his hospital bed (the hand-holding was enough); she leaned in just to press a kiss against his cheek. She whispered, "Merry Christmas, Josh Lyman."

She didn't see the look full of eyes of wonder and a mouth slightly dropped open in awe and surprise as she turned on the car. He swallowed and just said, "Merry Christmas, Donna Moss."

As she drove him back through the icy streets to get his car from the White House, they kept the radio turned off. They both now needed a silent night.

**I know it's supposed to be a slow burn, _but I can't help myself!_**

**Thanks for reading! Review?**


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